


Redefined Boundaries

by kowai_no_ouji



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Izuo - Freeform, M/M, Shizaya - Freeform, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowai_no_ouji/pseuds/kowai_no_ouji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo dies and Izaya is left grappling with the death of someone he never expected to lose. What happens when three years later Shizuo mysteriously returns?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fine

The world was ugly, but more than anything, it was cruel.

Cruel because today the sun was shining and the world was moving and time continued to pass as if nothing had happened.

Dirt caked the toes of polished black shoes.

Izaya Orihara stared at the bloom of sunlight reflecting off expensive leather. Italian, maybe. It was his first time wearing these shoes. He'd had them for so long he wasn't even sure when or why he'd first bought them.

Same with the suit. He wasn't a suit type of person. He found the stiff stitching restrictive, the buttoned shirt frustrating and on days like this, hot.

It was really hot. Too hot to be wearing so much black.

Beads of sweat prickled his brow, moistened his hairline. He thought he'd reached up to wipe it away, but when it began to sting his eyes he realized he hadn't. Just imagined it, he supposed.

His gaze moved to his hand, concentrated on the slice of mirrored sunlight on a silver ring.

The clicking continued as cameras flashed and shutters snapped, photographers and onlookers throwing regard to the wayside for a picture of Yuuhei Hanejima who'd arrived sans his usual entourage.

Izaya's attention moved to the younger man standing across from him, chestnut hair pulled away from a face that was delicate, withdrawn. Ignoring the attention he'd gathered, Kasuka watched the ground, eyes following the movements of a shovel accompanied by the cascade of dirt, clumps of it falling hard and heavy onto expensive wood.

Izaya hadn't looked down yet. Every time he tried his eyes wouldn't move past his shoes.

Beside Kasuka stood his parents. The Heiwajima family.

His mother was beautiful, features pretty yet strong. His father handsome, reserved.

Izaya's eyes fell once more to his shoes, unable to gaze at faces that looked so much like _his_. His mother's eyes, his father's mouth, the nose he shared with Kasuka, all features Izaya never thought he'd have to say goodbye to.

Not so soon, anyway.

It was over when he felt a gentle hand press between his shoulders, drawing his attention away from the dirt, eyes meeting bloodshot brown.

Shinra attempted a consoling smile. "We should go. I don't mind if you want to come over. I'm not sure when Celty will be back, and it'll be good to have some company."

Pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time, not reading it but simply going through motions that felt normal, Izaya replied, "I can't." And reading the question in Shinra's eyes, explained, "Work, ne."

Anger, judgment, darkened the gaze hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. "You couldn't take today off?"

A shoulder lifted in a lazy shrug, the motion tiring. "Why would I?"

Shinra made no reply, and Izaya couldn't look at him to read his expression. Maybe he was too afraid. Too tired.

"I just wanted to see it with my own eyes, ne." Except he hadn't. Couldn't. Still, his gaze had yet to move past his shoes. It had been enough to hear it. The crying, the dirt falling, the quiet. It was enough. "It's like a dream come true."

Ah, there it was. The wavering in his voice. The soft quake.

He smiled, the expression odd, uncomfortable. "I'm happy."

A lie, and a transparent one. He knew, strangely enough, what it felt like to be happy in a world that tried so hard to make it impossible.

Not like this.

Happiness was being chased through grimy alleyways, unsure he'd survive, unable to focus on the promise of pain when he felt like he was a sprint away from flying. Happiness was hearing that voice growl his name behind a thrilled smile, knowing the terrifying scream of metal being torn from the concrete and whistling towards him through the night air. It was looking back and seeing _him_ so close behind, a striking mess of blond hair and wild caramel eyes.

Happiness was six feet underground, packaged in a pretty wooden box.

And to think this was what he'd always wanted.

He was looking at his shoes again, at the sun gleaming merrily and bright even through the fresh dirt. Except it was now less clear. Blurry, hazy, too much. The heat of everything was in his eyes and it stung.

A woman passed before him, face morose, wet.

He'd never seen her before, couldn't understand why she was holding flowers.

From his peripheral he saw her bend to place them against a headstone he had yet to look at.

She wasn't the first. Soon there was a small line of mourners, each as unrecognizable as the other, placing down flowers. One after the other, some with drying tears, some with hardened expressions.

_Flowers_.

A quiet breath escaped his lips behind a dry smile, the sound quiet at first but growing increasingly louder as more and more of these _strangers_ placed flowers down, bowed their heads and mumbled little prayers under their breath as if they were speaking to someone.

As if he could hear them.

He realized he was laughing when he noticed them all staring, absolutely appalled, shocked.

They could stare all they wanted. He wasn't the one giving flowers to a dead man. A man who didn't even _like_ flowers.

Large hands fell upon his shoulders from behind in an attempt to guide him away. For a few moments he allowed it until they tried to turn him away at which point he wrestled free, shoving the person holding him off.

Kadota sighed, rubbed a hand over swollen, reddened eyes. "Izaya—"

"I'm fine."

He hadn't asked. In fact, no one had asked. No one ever asked.

There was probably a reason. No point in asking a question when you already knew the answer.

"I'm fine, ne."

Apparently he'd forgotten how to say anything else. Just that every time his eyes met those of someone else, he found himself saying those same three words, as if saying them enough would somehow make it true.

They were worried, he could tell. Shinra, Dota-chin, even Simon who he hadn't realized had been there until he'd joined the team of people trying to convince him to leave.

He couldn't understand their concern.

There was nothing wrong.

Shizuo died and all of a sudden he couldn't remember the past twenty-four years of his life.

But the sun was still burning, the earth was moving, and strangers were placing flowers on his grave.

It was okay.

He was fine.


	2. Resurface

“It’s good!”

A tiny curl of smoke wavered unsurely before dissipating beneath the light above the dining table. **[** I can tell when you’re lying, so don’t bother. **]**

Shinra balked, offended by the accusation. “I’m not lying! It really is delicious.” Happily shoveling another mouthful of browned rice into his mouth, he chewed behind a satisfied grin. “It’s not every day you decide to cook for me. What’s the occasion?”

Celty’s delicate fingers paused on the keypad of her PDA, curled towards her palm, quiet. 

_Oh, right_ , Shinra thought. 

It was today. 

Taking a casual sip from his glass of water, he cast his eyes towards his plate. It seemed he’d gotten so good at distracting himself that he’d actually managed to lose track. It’d already been three years. 

He smiled, for her. “And here I thought you were doing something nice because you love me.”

Immediately her hands came back to life, a puff of flustered smoke dancing excitedly from her neck. **[** Don’t tease me. **]**

“I won’t,” he answered, smile turning guileful, “As long as I can have you for dessert.”

**[** You’re awful. **]** The exposed skin peeking from her leather suit flushed a soft pink.

Shinra reached for her hand beneath the table, easing the soreness in his chest her little reminder had left. 

_Three years…_

“Would you like to go somewhere?”

Her fingers tightened around his appreciatively, lovingly. 

Again, he smiled, standing to take his cleared plate to the sink, leaning to press his mouth to her shoulder as he passed. “Let me clean up and then we’ll go wherever you want.” 

The phone rang as soon as he was finished drying his hands, number unknown. Glancing at the clock, struck by the late hour, he answered with a curious, “Kishitani Shinra speaking.” 

“Hey, it’s me.” 

The voice was throaty, gruff. Impossibly familiar. 

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Shizuo.” 

Starting from the nape of his neck and branching throughout his veins was ice, an unforgiving numb. Anger roiled in his stomach, rolling up into his throat, constricting his vocal cords and clouding his vision. As he spoke his voice shook, but he tried hard to keep quiet so as not to alert the woman sitting behind him at the kitchen table. “You have the wrong number. Common mistake. Goodnight.”

“What the h—”

His fingers trembled as he returned his phone to his pocket.

It wasn’t the first prank call, but it was the first in a while and with such poor timing. Shinra had no idea who or if it was ever the same person. Harassment was merely a nuisance and he felt no need to go so far as to investigate the source.

His attention was once again preoccupied by the woman who’d moved to stand before him, one hand coming to smooth against his arm, the other holding up her handheld. **[** Are you okay? **]**

He smiled. “I’m fine.” 

She was warm and relaxed when he drew her closer, arms circling her nipped waist as he pulled her flush against him just so he could breathe her in and think of nothing else but _her_ and how much he loved her. “Where would you like to go? The park, Mt. Fuji, Ireland, you name it and we’ll go.” 

Celty shrugged softly, choosing to speak through action as she slid her PDA onto the counter. Hands freed, her fingers pressed into his back. 

“Or we could just stay here,” he suggested calmly, gently, tone proposing nothing but comfort, to stand here and hold her like this as long as she needed him to. “I’m fine with saving dessert for another time.” 

But she wasn’t, and she demonstrated this by bringing a hand to his nape, long fingers carding through his chestnut hair and guiding his face closer to her neck. 

He knew every erogenous zone on the female body, on hers, but none of that knowledge meant anything once his mouth was against her skin and he could taste her. There was no science or reason behind his kisses, no map that he chose to follow. It was all instinct, _want_ , the simple urge to devour her. 

He’d always had a fascination with her collarbones, the hollow of her throat. Perhaps it was because for the longest time it was all he’d ever been able to see. It wasn’t until she allowed him to touch her for the first time that he learned there were other reasons, like how his tongue fit perfectly in that shallow dip between her clavicle, how it made her entire body tremble when he dragged his teeth against the soft ridge above her breast, how the leather from her suit left her skin tasting delectable, salty, rich. 

His hand found the clasp of her zipper, and slowly he dragged it down to her navel, suit parting over her breasts, exposing to his touch inches of warm, smooth skin. He pressed his mouth against the soft flesh of her left breast, grinning against the flying heartbeat beneath his lips. 

His grin wilted when his cell began to vibrate violently within his pocket. 

With a sigh he took it out, glanced at the unknown number and switched it off for good, leaving it on the counter next to Celty’s handheld. 

Returning his mouth to her neck, he murmured playfully, “So are you willing to try this on the kitchen table tonight, or would you prefer to move this elsewhere?” 

An embarrassed puff of smoke burst against his cheek.

Taking her hand, he led her towards the bedroom, lips brushing over her knuckles as he closed the door behind them. 

He knew that she could take off her suit faster than his human fingers ever could, but undressing her was always something he indulged in. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what was slowly being exposed to him as the zipper slid further, as he peeled black leather down her arms, tugged it from her curved waist and down her legs. Her skin was an immaculate blade of moonlight, stark and milky against dark sheets as he pressed her against the bed beneath him. 

“Always so beautiful.” The words were a breath, quiet, yet somehow she heard them, _felt_ them, as he murmured idolatries against her ribcage, his mouth skimming her abdomen as he lowered himself to his knees to nip the inside of a white thigh. 

She was trembling, her flesh quivering beneath his lips as he pressed his mouth against alabaster silk, her long, feminine fingers clutching his chestnut hair as his nose skimmed between her parted legs. 

Her thumb brushed his cheek, communicating that it was okay, he was allowed to continue, that she wanted him, and Shinra’s gaze darkened with satisfaction as he leaned closer to taste her, immediately feeling her jolt beneath the first press of his tongue against hot, sticky flesh, her fol—

Booming noise interrupted them, three thunderous knocks on the front door in fast sequence drawing his attention to the dark hallway. Shinra barely had time to stand before Celty shoved him aside, ribbons of inky smoke draping her figure in black leather as she headed out of the room, scythe manifesting out of thin air into her clenched hand. 

Shinra followed her, knowing it was useless to try and tell her to slow down, understanding that his anxiety for her safety was unnecessary as she was fully capable of taking down anyone and anything that proved a threat. 

But so had Shizuo, and ever since he died, Shinra never really had much faith in invincibility. 

“Answer the damn door, Shinra!” Came the angry threat from the other side, each word a ferocious growl, guttural and frightening. 

Celty stopped, hand frozen atop the door handle because she heard it too. A voice that sounded alarmingly like _his_. She turned towards Shinra, every muscle in her body visibly tensed, shuddering. 

Shinra shook his head, face stony, solemn. It wasn’t who they wanted it to be. Just another prank, and the worst one yet. 

“Go away or we’ll call the police,” he warned firmly, placing his hand over Celty’s, resenting the grime blocking the view through the peephole. 

There was another raucous thud against the door, the sound of a fist landing squarely against the frame. “The hell is your problem?! First you hang up on me when I’m damn stranded in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, you turn off your phone and now you’re tellin’ me you’re gonna call the cops? Stop messin’ with me, Shinra, and tell me what the fuck is going on.” 

There was a genuine hint of panic in the perpetrator’s voice, a rising hitch in breath, desperation. The pounding continued, frenzied. 

Celty lifted her scythe in preparation, pausing when the man on the other side quieted, the only distinguishable sound being his breathing, each exhale struggled, pained. 

“What are you doing here?” Shinra demanded.

The man sighed. “I’m locked outta my place and don’t have anything on me. Don’t even have any damn cigarettes.”

“Go to the police if you need help.”

“I don’t need help, just a place to stay until I can get back inside mine.” 

“If you really are who you say you are, you’d be able to force your way in.”

“And who the hell would have to pay for the damages?” Another sigh, a growl, something muttered angrily. “Just let me use your phone and I’ll be gone, alright? If you and Celty want some damn alone time, I get it. I just need to call Tom and tell him I’m gonna be late tomorrow.”

Shinra stilled at the mention of Celty, attention moving to the woman as she disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve her PDA.

Her hand was trembling as she held it up. **[** Who is this and why does he sound like him? **]**

It wasn’t impossible that this was just a very well planned hoax. That someone had studied enough about Shizuo to be able to mimic his every little nuance in speech and word choice, to learn the private details of his close friends and their relationship.

It wasn’t impossible, though it didn’t make sense why anyone would go to such an extent. There was nothing to gain from this. 

Shinra swallowed past the tightening of his throat, his fingers numb on the door handle. “Who are you?” 

Another sigh, more frustrated. “Can you just open the door?” 

Celty began to type, but Shinra already knew what she was going to say. “It’s not him, Celty.” 

Her hand withdrew, disheartened, as if for a second she’d been hoping. 

She wasn’t alone. There wasn’t a single person Shizuo knew that didn’t wake every day and wonder why he had to be gone. 

This _felt_ real, though. It _felt_ like him. Not just the voice, but the energy, the air buzzing the same way it did whenever he used to stand there, street sign in one hand, cigarette in the other. Angry, raw power. 

Shinra wasn’t going to answer the door. Not because of the suspected danger; he just didn’t want to have to see someone _else_. 

Someone that wasn’t him. 

A quiet thump was heard as the man on the other side kicked the bottom of the door. “Whatever. Fuck you. I’ll just sleep on a damn bench.”

There was a soft whoosh as Celty’s scythe dissolved, her PDA held limply beside her hip, Shinra knowing she felt just the same as him, likely even worse.

She missed him. There wasn’t a day that went by that it wasn’t made obvious. Sometimes she didn’t say very much, sometimes it took her longer to come home. Sometimes she picked up a strange hobby, searched for new distractions, and when those didn’t work out, she’d cling to him. 

Shinra was secure enough in their relationship to know she wasn’t using him as some sort of device for coping. But she sought the comfort only he could give her, and chose to give in reluctantly, always fighting and doing her best to stay strong.

She’d lost one of her closest friends, and one of the few people that understood her. Possibly the only person in the world that could relate to her. 

The severity of loneliness she suffered due to Shizuo’s death was only matched by one other, and he rarely ever stepped foot in Ikebukuro anymore.

Her hand went for the door handle, but Shinra reached out to stop her, eyes intent with warning. “It’s not him, Celty.” 

She wouldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. After all, she hadn’t been there for the funeral.

Maybe the reality hadn’t sunk in yet like it had for him, and she still thought it was possible for miracles to happen. For the dead to come back to life. She was a Dullahan, and magic was part of her very nature. Maybe she even believed in angels. 

Whatever it was, it persuaded her to wrench open the front door and step outside into the cool night, twisting left, right, in search of someone that she’d never be able to find.

And Shinra almost turned away, unable to stomach seeing her wilt on his doorstep, refusing to witness her belief crushed once again.

But she stopped, frozen, body facing the stairwell towards the end of the walkway. There was a light clunk as her PDA fell at her feet, one foot stepping forward. Back. Forward again. 

She disappeared from sight, running.

* * *

Somewhere in the gritty backroom of a bar located on a hard-to-locate street in Roppongi sat a slightly inebriated Izaya Orihara. 

Hood pulled over his head to shield his eyes from the glare of bar lighting, he roused himself from his torpor only to glance down at his phone to see who was calling. 

_Shinra._

Silencing the call, he buried the phone within his pocket, resuming where he’d left off counting the threads hanging from the frayed booth cushion across from him. 

The place was filthy, full of people his own age who had yet to find the motivation to achieve anything worthwhile with their lives, who wasted their nights on drugs and casual sex, their money on trendy clothing and temporary entertainment. 

Though he usually chose to avoid places like this, it was safe here. There was no chance that he’d run into one of his clients. Nor Shinra or Celty or those little high school kids or anyone else that would look at him and read him and _know_. 

It wasn’t his plan to get drunk, but it just seemed to happen tonight. He didn’t even recall drinking more than a glass of something. Whatever it was, it was strong. And he really knew better than to accept mysterious drinks from strangers, but he currently couldn’t locate the motivation to care.

His phone resumed where it’d left off, buzzing against his hipbone. Again he pulled it out to once again find it was Shinra, and once again he chose to ignore it. 

He wasn’t in any mood for comforting words or an invitation to come over so they could exchange old stories and laugh as they shared memories as if that person dying had been something to worry over once, but that time was years ago and no more.

It would be nice if that were the case. 

_I’m fine._

Sometimes people still bothered to ask. Sometimes he still bothered to answer.

A girl approached him, and he decided it was time to leave, moving away just as she reached to put her hand on his shoulder. 

Outside the air was only marginally less dense, less polluted. 

Crimson eyes rolled upwards towards the sky, unable to see the stars through the haze of light generated by this monster of a metropolis. 

_Turn off the lights, ne_ , he requested silently, desperate for even a glimpse of the sky, of something that wasn’t the land he was standing on. Of somewhere other than here. 

An airplane briefly moved into his field of vision, gliding between the two buildings bracketing both sides of this dirty alley.

A huddle of young men leered at him as he passed, some quietly, others choosing to be conspicuous. One vocalized an invitation to a seat on his cock, which Izaya waved off with a disinterested hand and an expression just as unfeeling. He couldn’t even muster to feel disgusted. Simply bored. Tired. 

He wanted to sleep, but not in his apartment. It was too quiet there.

He patted down his jacket in search of his wallet, considering a hotel, drink-clumsy fingers pausing when they brushed cool metal, the key in his pocket he kept there just in case.

_Just in case._

Izaya’s mouth pulled into what passerby might mistake as a smile but wasn’t as he pulled it out, the thing tiny and silver and heavier than if he were to balance a hundred vending machines in his palm. 

_You would be so angry with me_ , he thought, a splinter of feeling momentarily causing him to curl his fingers over the key so he didn’t have to look at it. 

It was probably the ninth or tenth key he had to get made. The first couple of times were because someone kept breaking into the apartment and the locks had to be changed. All the times after were because Izaya ended up tossing it. One key in the Tokyo Bay, another in the trash, another down a storm drain, until he ended up with this one. Brand new, and yet no different than the others.

He’d never stepped a single foot inside the place. 

Tonight, he decided, he’d give it a try. After all, it had been awhile since he’d last been to Ikebukuro, and he was so bored with everywhere else it’d be a welcome change in scenery. So long as nobody saw him, spoke to him, asked him how he was doing. 

He decided to take a taxi straight to the apartment, feeling nauseous as soon as the vehicle slowed against a curb he swore he’d never stand on again. 

The stairwell made an unaccommodating clunk with every step as he climbed it to the second story, hands weak against the railing, shaky. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. 

It was when he finally slipped the key into the lock that he felt it, the first inklings of sensation, _awareness_ , trickling into his fingers, and he paused, questioning what the hell he thought he was doing here. 

And for the first time in a long time, his body so much as dared to _anticipate_ as the door swung open, revealing an empty, dusty apartment, shrouded in dark. Quiet.

Disappointment no longer felt crushing. There was only so much power in the feeling, and living in a constant state of it eventually left one simply feeling flattened. Drained and unresponsive. 

Maybe he missed the feeling. Maybe he was slightly masochistic. Maybe he was just desperate enough to feel something that he fooled himself into thinking that coming here would be a good idea.

It wasn’t. 

The place smelled like him. Even under all the dust, the stale air, he was still there, the rich smell of tobacco having weaved itself into the yellowed carpeting, the threading of the worn sofa.

The door closed with a soft click behind him as he stepped inside, inhaling deeply, lungs expanding just to hold onto that smell a second longer, air leaving through his mouth in unstable, panicked breaths. 

Everything had been left untouched. Despite the break-ins, the furniture hadn’t been rearranged, the more insignificant, less valuable belongings left exactly where they were the day he died. 

It had only been with permission from the family that these things had been left where they were instead of taken to some sort of storage, shoved into boxes to be kept in closets or sold to strangers in secondhand shops. 

Only the Heiwajima family, Shinra, Celty and the landlord of this complex knew he owned the place, and all of them knew better than to ever ask him why.

The apartment was small, but Shizuo never could afford more than the bare necessities and a box of cigarettes. The television was the only thing noticeably missing, the stand on which it had rested now covered in a thick layer of dust, just like everything else. 

Izaya’s eyes moved straight to the door off to the right of the living area, gaping in invitation. 

The bedroom was even smaller than he expected, containing nothing more than a bed and nightstand. The closet door hung open, wire hangers bare, though it was easy to picture how neatly those bartender uniforms would’ve hung. Against the inside wall of the stripped closet was an ironing board, the iron itself nowhere to be found. Something small, dark, hung limply from the knob of the nightstand. A bowtie. 

Izaya’s breath tightened and his throat closed with every inhale as he stepped further into the room, his eyes immediately moving to the glass ashtray sitting atop the bedside table next to an open box of cigarettes and a lighter. It wasn’t until he was standing beside the dusty bed that he realized Shizuo must’ve forgotten his cigarettes.

_Ah, that's why you were angrier than usual, ne_. Provoked and tortured, memories of that day resurfaced with stark clarity. Even now, standing on cheap carpet in this tomblike bedroom, Izaya could feel the force of pavement beneath the balls of his feet, the soreness in his legs as he leapt and scurried but a hairsbreadth away from those reaching fingers. 

Fear stole air from his lungs as it took him a second too long to recall the exact shade of those eyes, the sound of that voice, his memory struggling to hold onto the important pieces. Desperate, he inhaled again the smell of tobacco, lifted a cigarette between his fingers and brushed it against his mouth. 

_Leave_ , he urged, his body refusing to listen. He found himself taking a seat on the edge of that bed, a cloud of dust lifting from stiff sheets, dirtying the white trim of his jacket. 

The lighter miraculously still worked when Izaya picked it off the nightstand and ignited the end of a cigarette. He watched the white paper singe around the edges, burn away and leave ash on his pant leg. 

One inhale and he was choking, smoke and dust and terror clinging to his throat and not letting go. He curled in on himself, head between his knees, palms over his eyes as he tried to press the dark into the back of his head and over all those images that kept him from breathing. 

_Flea._

He couldn’t hear it anymore. Couldn’t recall what that name sounded like anymore. He couldn’t remember, and memories were all he had left. Fading memories, and one half-empty box of cigarettes. 

The unfairness of it all had him taking out his knife and lashing out at the nearest object, Shizuo’s flat pillow spilling tufts of cotton. Taking it up, Izaya flung it across the room as he stood, his foot slamming hard into the nightstand, his leg burning and aching with every kick. 

_Stupid protozoan_. The ashtray fell to the carpet, leftover ash staining it black. Izaya pressed the soot with his shoe, watched as it smeared and dirtied the floor until it was past the point of ever being salvageable. 

His fingers shook as he pulled out his phone, ignoring the slew of unread messages and missed calls as he scrolled through his contacts and pressed send. Bright crimson numbed and cooled as the call never connected. “ _We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again_."

It hurt, as if his ribcage was compressing, everything within his chest feeling punctured, the very notion of breathing impaling and cruel.

Everything was _wrong_ and it was the injustice of it all that left Izaya with all of this indignation because this _was never supposed to happen_. 

Monsters don’t die. 

They’re placed upon the earth destined to destroy and conquer, to establish a legacy and loom over the dull, unimpressive collective of mankind. They’re strong, untouchable, _invincible_ , everything mankind isn’t. From the top rung of the natural order they regulate the fate of the world and everything on it. 

Plants die. Animals die. People die. One after the other, an insignificant life force fades and a new one begins.

Unessential, unimportant.

Different from plants and animals, mankind has to suffer with the knowledge of its own limitations. Those of high intelligence and performance are _distinct_ , but even they aren’t an exception to the governance of nature. A human body is only capable of so much.

Monsters aren’t human. Boundaries are undefined, impossibility a rug to wipe their feet upon. 

Monsters _can’t_ die. 

Whether it’s taking the brunt force of a moving bus head-on, pulverizing a brick wall with one fist, lifting a loaded truck with no effort or tossing a vending machine halfway across Tokyo, there is nothing they cannot do. 

A monster could be shot at point-blank range and walk away unscathed, itching at the bullet lodged into the back of their skull like one would a mosquito bite. 

Monsters _survived_. They hurt, they suffered and they raged, but they always _survived_. It’s what made them incredible. It’s what made them _not human_.

So _why?_

_That’s not a question anyone can answer, though, is it?_ He recalls Shinra saying one evening about a year ago when something in Izaya’s programmed _I’m fine_ wasn’t fine _enough_ to be ignored. The conversation was an attempt to be consoling, an absolute calamity of an effort the moment Shinra said that _there are just some things that are out of our control_.

_I know_. Just like everyone else, he was only human. For all of his connections and his wealth and his intelligence, he had no _real_ power. People may fear him, but they were never in awe of him. Not like they were with Celty, not as they’d been with Shizuo. On this game board he was King through hard work, manipulation, and skill. But if a larger force ever decided to spill all the pieces onto the floor, there was nothing he could do about it other than fall.

He never had to be angry about it until Shizuo was taken from him. 

And he had been taken. When you lived in a world where Dullahan and demonic blades and men with Herculean strength existed within a five-mile radius of each other, it was foolish not to believe in the possibility of a supernal plane of existence. 

Which was why this was unforgiveable. All of it. If there did exist some sort of divine mastermind, then Shizuo’s death was no mere accident. It was a decision. And because it was a decision, there was a reason, and Izaya deserved to know _why_. 

He just didn’t know who to ask anymore. Wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer. At the end of the day, it wouldn’t ever be enough to make all of this okay. Enough would only ever be—

Reaching fingers, the threat of real danger. _Flea._

Breath shaky, his mouth parted and he tasted salt and wet and that’s how he knew it was time to go. 

The outside air was cool against his damp cheek as he locked up, and though the effects of the alcohol had worn off the moment he’d stepped out of that taxi, Izaya still blamed everything on it anyway. 

His cell began to buzz again as he was making his way down the stairwell and because he was tired and because it was cold and because Shizuo was dead and because answering wouldn’t change anything except to divert his thoughts away from how little he thought about anything anymore, he answered. “Moshi, moshi Shinra-kun~ What can the great Orihara-sama do for you this wonderful even—”

“ _Izaya, look, I_ —you need to come here, we—he’s—”

Shinra sounded panicked, in a complete frenzy. Izaya’s eyes rolled back towards the sky. “You’re not making any sense, ne. Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking on a weeknight. Tsk, tsk. As a working professional you should really know better.”

Shinra was laughing now, a strained, breathless sound. “Yeah, no, that’s not it, it’s just—I don’t even know how to say it—if I even _believe it_ —but, Izaya, he’s, Shizuo, he’s alive and—”

He must’ve made some sound of protest, because Shinra immediately quieted. It took a few seconds for Izaya to realize he’d stopped walking and was now standing in the center of a deserted sidewalk, gaze detached and terrified because though Shinra had obviously been drinking too much that didn’t excuse the fact that he was trying to talk about Shizuo and not just Shizuo but an alive Shizuo and—

“Ah, I think you should stop there.” His voice wavered, but he didn’t care to disguise or excuse it. The orange glow of the streetlight ahead flared to the size of the sun, and he felt a too-familiar burn around his eyes. “So mean, Shinra. Really. What a tasteless thing to say.”

Drawn breathing was a sign that Shinra was making an attempt to control his enthusiasm. The sober pulse of his voice was shocking. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

_Wouldn’t you?_ Was the question Izaya couldn’t ask because his throat was tight and hot and swollen and his heart was pounding air from his lungs in quick, furious shudders. Salt was in his mouth again and his next inhale of cold air sounded wet and difficult and he knew that Shinra had to have heard it, knew that he was falling apart and had been for three years and the seam that was keeping his life together was about to unravel right here on the fucking sidewalk outside of Shizuo’s apartment building. Shizuo who was dead and had been dead and he knew that because he’d been at that funeral and he saw all of those flowers and remembered how badly the sun stung his eyes just like it was now even though it was sometime around midnight and—

“Izaya—”

“ _No. Don’t—_ ” Every inhale was congested and wet and he could hardly see anymore through the damp mesh of his eyelashes, “—don’t lie, ne. I _can’t—_ ” 

“Here. Say something. He doesn’t believe me,” Shinra was saying, his voice distant and quiet as if the phone was too far away from his mouth.

_“I have nothin’ to say to that shitty flea.”_

_Shizu—_

“Did you hear that?” It was Shinra again. 

Adrenaline pulsed through him, terror rooting his feet to cool cement because he did hear it and he thought he never would again and it couldn’t be real because he’d _been there_ and he _saw it_ , saw _him_ , lying there too still and too human to ever be okay and—“Don’t fucking joke with me. Don’t _lie_ —” and he couldn’t say any more because the air had stopped entering his lungs again and it _hurt_ again just like always except so much _more_ because now he was scared and he didn’t know where to go to get away from all of this.

“Come over, Izaya. It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”

Somehow he managed to open his mouth through the dryness and the panic to choke on the start of a question that Shinra seemed to understand anyway.

“I don’t know. He just showed up, and I can’t figure it out, I just—we just—” And now Shinra was the one that was breathing shakily, holding it all in never something he could manage quite as well as Izaya in all instances except for this, “—come over.”

Izaya thought he saw a car pass until he realized it was parked and that he was the one moving, one leg in front of the other in the direction of Shinra’s apartment where that voice and whoever or whatever it belonged to was waiting. That voice that sounded so much like _his_ because it was either a video or a recording or an old voicemail or maybe it was the alcohol that hadn’t really left his system yet but he had to know because nowadays he felt like he didn’t know anything because Shizuo died and he always believed that was impossible and yet it still happened so how was he ever supposed to be sure he knew anything and—

_Flea._

He remembered again. How that sounded. As much his name as Izaya was, but only when it was spoken in _that_ voice. That gruff, angry, smoke-laden voice that was too throaty to ever be gentle, too _Shizuo_. 

Incoherent mumbling could be heard from his neglected phone and he shoved it within his pocket in order to free up his hands to force his momentum forward and _faster_. 

Shinra seemed to already be waiting at the door because Izaya only had to arrive at the doorstep before it was swung open and he was inside, utterly breathless and sweaty and eyes darting everywhere for a glimpse of blond hair or a discarded cigarette or—

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Hands were gripping his shoulders, the touch reminiscent of those hands prying him away from Shizuo’s grave, and same as that day Izaya wrestled away from a touch that was meant to be placating but felt more like a cage. “ _Izaya_ —”

A pale hand gripped his wrist, and Izaya’s sweeping gaze met a plume of smoke and the glowing screen of a PDA. **[** You need to breathe. He’s here. We’re not lying to you. **]**

Words. Nothing but words, and he wouldn’t allow himself to believe any of it unless he saw with his own eyes. 

Shinra moved to stand before him, his hands looking to reach out as if to hold him again before deciding against it. The doctor smiled, and it wasn’t sad. It wasn’t sad and Izaya couldn’t remember the last time he looked like there wasn’t anything wrong. “I know you want to see him, but you have to understand that he doesn’t exactly want to see _you_. This _is_ Shizuo we’re talking about.” Something on Izaya’s face clearly stated that he didn’t care because Shinra huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just warning you that he might be angry when he sees you. He’s already confused—in fact, we all are—so throwing you into the equation really isn’t going to help matters, but,” and that smile saddened, that gaze turning pitying, “I couldn’t _not_ tell you.” 

“Where—?” His voice caught, his breath unstable and nervous. 

“He’s taking a shower. If you’d like, you can wait—” Izaya moved past, ignoring Celty’s protesting hand and Shinra’s sighed resignation, “—or not.”

The door to the guest bathroom was ajar and so Izaya redirected his steps towards Shinra’s bedroom. From outside the door he could hear the shower running, the sound jarring and _real_ and that fear returned tenfold and he paused, terrified of what he may or may not see on the other side. 

Shinra’s sigh this time was offended. “Just go in already. Now you’re just getting on my nerves.” The doctor opened the door for him, guiding him in with a gentle hand. “Oh, and no destroying anything. You’re both being held accountable for any property damage. I’ve already made this very clear with Shizuo, so he’s promised to do his best not to hit you, but you know how he is.”

Shinra moved as if to leave, but once Izaya caught sight of the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door, his hand reached for the doctor’s shirtsleeve and held tightly. 

Brown eyes gentled at the sight, understanding more than anyone what it meant for Izaya to let anyone see him look this terrified. The hand he settled on Izaya’s shoulder was meant to be comforting, the man flinching away as if he’d been struck. “You’ll be okay. _He’s_ okay. I haven’t even begun to try and figure out _how_ , but it _is_ him. Not a zombie, not some impersonator. It’s really Shizuo.” And because he felt like he couldn’t say it enough because Izaya never seemed to trust it enough, repeated, “We’re not lying.” 

Thin black brows seemed to close in against a pale brow, Izaya’s mouth drawing tight as he released his hold on Shinra’s shirtsleeve in quiet agreement for him to leave. 

The door closed with his exit, the bedroom dark but for the glow of light from beneath the bathroom door. 

It was between the time of Shinra leaving and the shower shutting off that Izaya understood that something about himself was about to irrevocably change. Whatever it was he’d lost in himself the day Shizuo stopped being a part of his world would be defined the moment that door opened.

His heart startled when the doorknob jostled, caught between anticipation and trepidation, the enormity of this confrontation and the potential devastation it could inflict on his tortured and frayed mentality too much a burden for him to face with squared shoulders and just like that day, three years ago on a hot afternoon, Izaya found himself unable to look up from his shoes. 

The first thing he felt was the brush of warmth against his skin as the man stepped closer, and most likely it was because of the shower and steam but it was already so alarmingly like Shizuo that the first inhale of soap-scented air resurfaced that aching burn behind Izaya’s eyes and his fingers curled into nervous fists as he waited for someone to say something. 

Instead it remained quiet.

A calloused hand reached forward and Izaya drew away from it before his mind had the opportunity to try and recognize the length and feel of those fingers, stepping back to put some distance between them, head canted downwards and away, eyes now focused on the corner of Shinra’s nightstand.

Everything was trembling until Izaya realized it was just him, his voice locked behind the clench of his teeth, his fingernails biting into the palms of his hands. The man moved around him, and Izaya listened to the sound of a drawer opening, the quiet shush of clothing. His eyes burned. 

The man was standing before him again, clothed in a borrowed pair of Shinra’s slacks and a white t-shirt, both of which were slightly too small to fit right. 

That hand came up again, and this time Izaya allowed it. Swallowed through the tightness closing around his throat as rough fingers gripped the front of his shirt and forced him closer. His eyes remained downcast and away. 

“Hey,” was the first gruff entreaty, the man’s impatience obvious in the way he nearly lifted Izaya off the floor. “ _Oi_. Look at me, flea.” 

Dark lashes pressed damp lines against pale lower lids as Izaya’s eyes closed and he became dimly aware that he was shaking his head in refusal because he just _couldn’t_ —

“ _Izaya_ —”

Izaya flinched at the sound of his name, his body shuddering against the first wave of recognition, something wet and frightening and overwhelming pooling beneath his closed eyelids. It spilled over because _Shizu-chan_ and he found himself trying to hide the fact that he was unraveling behind the sleeve of his jacket. 

Those hands deserted him and so did that warmth, leaving him standing there with his face pressed to the sleeve of his jacket, trembling and vulnerable and still too terrified to look. 

“Izaya—”

“Don’t watch.” His voice was crackly and horrible and thick with something that was anything he knew how to identify and—

“Fuck, flea. What the hell happened?” 

Izaya shook his head, the answer still too much even now for him to voice without choking on the word because _you died_ was something he never imagined saying three years ago or now, and it still didn’t feel right. Instead he inhaled as much air as he could through wet and salty lips, exhaled unevenly and lifted his face. 

His brow creased, his face undecided on expression as red-rimmed crimson finally met golden caramel.

Shizuo wasn’t blond anymore. That was perhaps the most shocking after the fact that he was even standing there. Instead his hair was what Izaya could only assume was his natural hair color, a rich shade of brown that suited all the parts of him that were traditionally handsome, at odds with everything he actually was. But everything else was the same—his mouth, thin and frowning, his perfectly straight nose, angry brow and those sharp, leonine eyes. 

Currently those eyes were watching him guardedly, unable to disguise what was undoubtedly confusion and maybe a bit of uneasiness because in all the years they’d known each other, this was the first time Shizuo had ever seen Izaya like this. Something peculiar flickered across his face, and he glanced towards the bedroom door. “Are you in on that joke or…” He touched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable, “’cause they’ve been going on about me being dead or some shit and that can’t be real, flea. Tell me the truth, Izaya, ‘cause it’s starting to piss me off.” 

It was amazing how quickly that old anger resurfaced, how quickly Shizuo could still annoy him. It would never be the same as it used to be, but it was still comforting to once again feel something so familiar as this focused frustration. “Then where were you?” 

Shizuo’s jaw locked because somehow he understood that they weren’t talking about yesterday, which was the last thing he thought he remembered. Running after the louse, angrier than usual because he’d forgotten his cigarettes and Izaya had stolen his wallet so he couldn’t even buy any. Something in his gut told him that memory wasn’t as fresh as he wanted to believe. “I’m supposed to believe I’ve been dead three years?” 

That’s exactly what that crimson stare was saying. Because the Izaya he knew would never look like this unless something devastating had happened.

He remembered that weird look on Shinra’s face earlier when he insisted that he needed to call Izaya. _I need to tell him you’re back. He needs to know._

“So what? Miss me, flea?” His free hand curled, anger not entirely forgotten, though Izaya’s gaze flickered vulnerably at the question and Shizuo couldn’t help but feel he may have just hit the nail right on the head. “You want a damn hug or somethin’?” 

Izaya’s response was to step away, his hands remaining solidly in his pockets, everything about the way he was standing sending the signal to Shizuo that he had no interest in being touched. “That won’t be necessary, Shizu-chan.” 

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Still.” And that garnet gaze glimmered unsteadily, the eyes of someone standing on a precipice, unsure if they can commit to jumping. “Don’t, ne.” 

“You’re that afraid of me now?” For some reason that didn’t make him feel half as satisfied as he thought it would, the idea of Izaya cowering from him sorta pissing him off. 

“I’ve had something very strong to drink,” Izaya began, and he was no longer looking at Shizuo but everywhere else, “and this isn’t the first time I’ve had such a vivid—”

“I’m not some damn ghost, you stupid louse.” Suddenly annoyed that Izaya wouldn’t even meet his eyes anymore, Shizuo reached out only for the raven-haired man to smoothly move away from his reach. “Not gonna disappear.” 

Shizuo finally managed to catch him after cornering him near the bathroom door, his hands just barely clutching fistfuls of that ugly jacket before Izaya began to struggle like a caged animal. 

No, not struggle. Fall apart.

It was like something finally snapped the moment his fingers touched a pale wrist, Izaya’s face crumpling into something so unlike him because it was ugly and real and not some mask or front and Shizuo didn’t know what to do but stare as Izaya pressed his face into Shizuo’s chest, skinny fingers latching onto the front of his shirt and refusing to let go. 

“ _Shizu-chan._ ” His shirt was damp where Izaya’s eyes were held closed over his heart, and out of some strange regard for the flea’s privacy, Shizuo lifted his fur-trimmed hood over his head and let him finish whatever the fuck he needed to, slipping his hands into the pockets of Shinra’s pants. 

Izaya was trembling, his breathing hot and unsteady against Shizuo’s chest, and part of him wished he could still see the flea’s face, part of him really preferring to remain ignorant because seeing Izaya like this made it difficult to be angry and Shizuo didn’t know how else to be around the flea. So he just stood there, quietly, eyes glued to the fur trim of that ugly jacket as he still tried to decide whether he was supposed to accept any of this as real. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there in the dark, but it must’ve been awhile because eventually there was a hesitant knocking on the bedroom door, Shinra’s voice cautious as if he already knew he was interrupting something. “Are you two okay in there?”

“Give us a sec. We’ll be out soon.” 

“No need to rush. Just let us know if you plan on getting up to something. Honestly, though, I’d prefer it if you went to a love hotel considering it’s my plac—”

“Shut the hell up, Shinra.” 

The doctor’s laughter traveled down the short hallway, and Shizuo waited until it completely tapered off before returning his attention to the quiet flea still leaning against him. His shirt had dried, but Izaya’s grip hadn’t lessened a bit. “You done or you still need a second?”

Izaya’s forehead brushed his shoulder and stayed there for a minute. When he finally pulled away, the skin around his eyes was puffy and tender pink. “I’m done for now.” And a shadow of a smirk curled his lip, and Shizuo relaxed a bit. “Unless Shizu-chan really would be interested in checking into a love hote—”

The once-blond shoved Izaya back against the wall a little too playfully to really cause any harm, his body and his everything else much too conscious of the still damp area over his heart and the way Izaya had reached for him to really commit to being violent. “Back to your normal bullshit, then. Business as usual.”

Izaya’s hand snagged the end of Shizuo’s shirt and pulled him back towards him, the brute allowing it simply because his curiosity for where this was headed got the better of him. “Ah, no one said that, Shizu-chan.” 

Shizuo paused, glancing at clever cherry. “Huh?”

“I’m not agreeing to business as usual, ne. It’s been three years, after all, and things have changed.” 

“Just cause I’ve been outta commission doesn’t give you the right to rewrite the rules of the game, flea.” 

“No, that’s where you’re wrong.” And it was Izaya Orihara as Shizuo knew him again. All five-foot-something of cocky bravado, a guy too aware of his pretty face and his smart mouth to ever give anyone the opportunity to feel like they might stand a chance. A guy that made you pissed off for no particular reason. A guy that truly had issues and genuinely thought he deserved everything he wanted. It was _that_ Izaya standing there now, watching him with those teasing eyes, calculating and no doubt overthinking everything for no damn reason other than the fact he could. 

Shizuo felt uneasy, never able to really guess Izaya’s next move. “So what’s changed?”

“What’s _changed_ , Shizu-chan,” Izaya began quietly, a pale hand reaching up to slide against a square jaw, fingers combing through brunette locks. He smiled, the expression lacking all motive and leaving room for nothing other than a fierce possessiveness as their mouths drew closer. “Is that you’re mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:** I think I must enjoy making myself sad because I really enjoyed writing this despite me tearing up at parts (lol). Now comes the fun stuff. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Please let me know if you did (or didn’t…)! If I managed to make you tear up even a little please let me know. I tried ridiculously hard on this chapter, so lemme know if it was effective. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely feedback/comments/kudos/favorites/follows! <3

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Note:** I really shouldn’t start writing a new story when I haven’t finished my other, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while and I needed to get it out. I don’t enjoy writing about dead Shizuo. It makes me really sad…
> 
> Be warned, I have no idea where I’m going with this, which generally means bad news when it comes to updates. Hopefully I’ll figure it out along the way. I’ve got a rough idea for how I want the first few chapters to go, but after that…DERP. 
> 
> Oh, writing is so fun. 
> 
> Please review if you have the time!  
>  **~Merry**


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